


the giving tree

by valety



Category: Odin Sphere
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sowing the seeds of life in a world reborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the giving tree

Although the land can no longer be said to be barren, it still remains empty. Fields of green and gold stretch onwards for as far as the eye can see, but it is a long, long time before you and Oswald finally come across a break in the horizon.

The break is a tree. A towering, sprawling thing that seems to be straining upwards for the heavens, and you wonder, briefly, if perhaps you could someday actually reach them if you began to climb. 

It's a miracle, considering how new and budding the rest of the world appears to be so far. You don’t know how such a thing could still be standing – it certainly could not have grown so much in so little time – but you won’t question it, not when you’d been aching so for any sign of life beyond that which the phozons had returned.

That night, you and Oswald fall asleep together in the shadow of the ash tree. Despite not yet having built a shelter, you do not feel afraid. Instead, you almost feel as though somebody is watching over you.

 

* * *

 

 

It is with frequent, harried apologies that you and Oswald take the poor tree’s wood. It seems a shame to mar the trunk of one so grand, and yet the wood gives easily, and the leaves above always seem to rustle gently as you do so, as if to say _‘tis no trouble at all._

Had this magical being seemed at all resistant to your efforts, you might have chosen to look elsewhere for your supplies. As it is, you know fully well that you will never find a better place to set up camp, and so it is there that you begin to build a home.

You take shelter underneath the branches of the tree until the day your new house is complete. Even then, you never quite manage to stop thinking of the tree itself as _home._

The tree’s wood lights easily, perfect for a fire when the night grows cold. Yet the fire is a gentle thing, and you feel no fear when you see it dance. The wood will not allow the flames to consume any more than necessary, and you know instinctively that you are safe, even when you find yourself dozing off beside the fire after a long, exhausting day of searching endlessly for signs of life. There is no threat to you or your husband, no raging inferno from which to hide; there is only comfort.

From the borrowed wood, you craft a spear. As animals once again begin appearing on the plains, as though they're coming out of hiding, you begin to hunt, returning every evening with a lamb or rabbit for Oswald to prepare. But one day, it occurs to you to bring them home alive, and together, you build a pen in which to keep them, right beside your humble vegetable garden.

The animals appear to take quite well to the leaves of your provider, and as always, you’re sure to give your thanks. As always, you feel almost as though the tree can hear you.

From the tree, you’re given shelter, warmth, and food. From the tree, you’re given life. Yet no matter how much you’re forced to take, no matter how much wood you cut away, it remains as tall and glorious as that day you first found it, leaving you to wonder just what lucky thing you’ve done for the gods to smile so upon you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You’ve never had much of a head for alchemy, despite what Myris used to try and teach you about healing. Oswald, however, appears to have a hidden talent for herbs, perhaps as a consequence of growing up in the forests of Ringford. While you hunt, he gathers, and in the evenings he prepares concoctions; remedies for future injuries and illnesses, as well as mixtures for the garden, to aid the plants in growing strong.

In this, too, the ash tree proves to be a blessing. When you unexpectedly come down with a fever one day following an injury, it is with the ash tree’s roots that Oswald prepares a bitter decoction to bring it down with.

It is not long afterwards that you are well again, and when you are strong enough to walk – when Oswald is not with you – you go to rest your head against the trunk.

“My mother died of a fever,” you say, and you cannot say for sure whether you are speaking to the tree or to yourself. Perhaps you are still feverish yourself, imagining that somebody can hear you. "I was young, but I remember going to see her before she died. She took my hand, and…I remember she was burning.”

Your eyes fall shut against the memory.

“She was a Valkyrie,” you say. “And there was no glory whatsoever in her death. Nor was there glory in my sister’s. I wonder, now, if death can ever truly be said to be _glorious.”_

There is no sound but the whispering of leaves.

“I am afraid of dying now," you confess. “Perhaps it is strange of me to say this after already having lost so much, but I feel as though I have too much to lose these days. So...thank you. Thank you for watching over us, when we are most alone."

You receive no answer, of course. But you almost think that you can feel somebody’s arms around you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to lean into the wood and imagine an embrace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That night, you go to your husband. 

 

* * *

 

 

The child is born on the first rainfall of spring. You take it as a sign of hope.

The labour is long and difficult, but you are still a Valkyrie. You were built to endure unimaginable pain; such a thing as childbirth is nothing. And of course Oswald is there beside you, clutching your hand in his when not offering you tonics to subdue the pain. You do not need them. His presence alone gives you strength enough to overturn the world.

When it’s over, you are left with a tiny, red-faced little thing, so solemn initially that you worry there is something wrong with it. But the child takes to your breast easily enough, and you soon forget your fears in favour of admiring it - the limbs, so small and delicate, the sweet young bud of its mouth, the feathery white cap of hair.

“Look. The child's hair is just like yours, Oswald,” you say aloud. “It's white as snow."

“Their eyes are just like yours,” he responds, sounding almost awestruck as he gazes into indigo. “This is truly our child.”

(You almost laugh at that; as if there was ever any doubt!)

“Our beautiful baby girl,” you murmur. You wonder; will she be a Valkyrie? You would hope that there would be no need for fighting in this reborn world, but you should like to give your child wings and take them flying, as your mother did for you. You should like your child to feel free, like no avenue has been forbidden to them.

“Well, we don’t know _that_ yet,” Oswald says mildly.

For a moment, you are unsure of his meaning. Then you wonder if perhaps he is joking, playing you for a fool. But such mockery would be unlike him, and he is smiling at both you and the child with such tenderness that you know he couldn’t have meant it in any sort of condescending way, as the men back home would have. And you remember, then, that Oswald was raised by fairies, and it occurs to you that perhaps things were done a little differently there.

“You’re right, of course,” you say. “I apologize. Still, they are beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They are,” he agrees readily, sounding almost happy. And you think, with something like regret, that you might have liked to have better known a kingdom that could foster such consideration.

It is too late now, of course.

Still. You have your experiences to build upon, and Oswald has his own, and you have the security that your friend the tree has provided you with. Perhaps together, you can sculpt a better world, a future you’d be proud to raise a child in; something that you never would have had before. One without the violence or the prejudice or fear that so ravaged the Erion you left behind.

“What are we to name this child?” Oswald asks, stroking the small red cheek of this tiny bit of life that clings to you so naturally.

From your bed, you can see the post-rain sunlight beginning to dapple through the branches, and you say, “Askr. For our dear friend who did us the honour of overseeing the birth.”

“A wonderful suggestion,” Oswald says, and overhead, the ash tree’s leaves once again begin to rustle from an unseen wind, a sound almost like laughter, as though to offer its approval.

And so the wheel continues to turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Askr = "ash tree." According to Norse mythology, one of the first human beings on Earth.
> 
> (The mythology doesn't _quite_ line up with Odin Sphere, but I think that's probably forgivable.)


End file.
